​(Read Salida Trail Marathon Part I: One Step At A Time)

One foot in front of the other and I’m just about to the top of this four-mile uphill bit of Type II fun. I see some folks standing in front of the 12.5 mile aid station - they direct me to continue on up the hill for another half-mile before returning to the station where I get off the road and onto some rolling double track. These volunteers do not pull me off the course - somehow, I have made the first time cut-off! 

But there’s no time for celebration. I’m not off the hook yet for the second cut-off. The promised wind has picked up, and despite passing another runner or two, the next portion feels desolate. The climbing is more varied but we’re still gaining elevation. Some stronger gusts take me by surprise, and I barely save my hat more than once. I’m in automatic mode, staring down at the dirt, when I come around a turn and a large meadow opens in front of me, with a stellar view of the snow-capped Sangre de Cristo mountains. For the first time today, I relax a smidge. I remember that I love being out on the trails, running through trees and meadows, reveling in vistas to the far-off horizon. 

I soak that in, and then it’s on to technical, rocky terrain that doesn’t allow for viewing anything but what’s right in front of me. All along I’ve been diligent about eating and drinking. My hydration vest is bulging with a plain water bladder, two soft flasks with a strong electrolyte mix, and tons of bars and chews. It was bulging so much, in fact, that I had to switch jackets this morning because the first one wouldn’t fit over all my fuel. Every few minutes I take a bite of a bar, eat a couple of chews, wash it down with plain water, take a few sips of electrolyte, wash that down with plain water. It is not easy to continue taking all that in, but my body responds well to this method so I keep doing what works.

As I approach mile 19.5, the aid station and second cut-off, I’ve picked off another runner or two and realize that I can let go of the time cut-off worry. I do some fuzzy estimates and conclude that Charlotte has finished by now - still hoping that all is well with her, but figuring I would have heard something if there was a problem. Plus I think the warm temps, wind, climbing and technical demand have taken the edge off my anxiety. I grab some water at the aid station and keep on truckin’.

For the next few miles, I move along at a consistent pace. I’ve been trading passes with a couple of young women in their early twenties - I pass them, they pass me, and so on. At around mile 23 as I pass them again, I can see that the heat has gotten to one of them. I also know that this is where my old lady endurance kicks in. Being young, they don’t have that edge, so I’m pretty sure they won’t pass me back again. (They don’t.)

The last push is a climb up Spiral Drive, where you pass by the “S” lights on Tenderfoot Mountain which overlooks Salida. I am mentally prepared for this, and though it is tough at the end of a long day, it feels kinda good, especially knowing how close I am to finishing. Coming down from Spiral Drive into the last aid station I am feeling decent. I grab some more water and take off, when the volunteers start yelling at me - I’m going in the wrong direction. Oops. I see them watching me so I pull myself together and try to look like I know what I’m doing. Not sure they are convinced.

I know from doing the half-marathon last year that the last mile of this race is a heartbreaker. You can hear the cheering from the finish at Riverside Park across the river as you switchback your way down the front side of the S Mountain. You get to the bottom and think it is just a hop over the railroad tracks, a skip over the river bridge, and a jump across the timing mat to finish. Nope. You get to the bottom and there’s a white arrow (created from flour) pointing you east. At the next possible turn, there’s another arrow - straight.. You keep heading east and just when you think you will never ever see the finish, there’s a right turn!! White arrows, pink flags, and to the finish you go. 

I run (am I actually running at this point?) across the bridge and a young girl sitting high on a huge boulder at the entrance to Riverside Park cheers me on. “Thank you!” I say, and she cheers louder, energized by acknowledgement. I try to pick up my legs for a finish push but the Frankenstein effect has set it. Then I see and hear Charlotte and Lynn! I am so happy to see them! They are simultaneously cheering and running with me to the finish. Lynn says to Charlotte, “well, she’s running better than us!” I guess Frankenstein can move when the end is in sight.

I cross the line with a time of 7:06. I finished! Maybe not my goal time, but I completed my first trail marathon even though I started the day with concrete legs. 

It turns out that Charlotte not only held up just fine, but performed well - she placed 1st in her age group and 7th woman overall! I’m so proud of her, and very happy for her. As much as I love running, I don’t think that even at her age my body would have consistently performed the way hers does. 

It feels both surreal and satisfying to hang out in the park post-race with Charlotte and Lynn, cheering the final finishers in. White puffy clouds move across the azure sky. The sun on my skin gives just the right amount of warmth, and the wind is more gentle now as it blows through the leafless branches of the huge old trees. The Arkansas river flows just a few yards away, and the three of us chat away. There is nowhere else I’d rather be.

Charlotte and I move through the Salida streets at a quick walk, making our way to Riverside Park. Today is the Salida Run Through Time Trail Marathon (26.2 miles, 3800 feet of elevation gain), which we set our sights on last July. We are both nervous. Charlotte is experiencing a couple of nagging spots since running RUFA two weeks prior, and she’s worried about her body holding up for this race. Understandable. At RUFA, she ran 48 miles and climbed 18,000 feet. On our drive to Salida I asked her if she remembered how difficult of a day it was when we climbed Mt. Yale a couple years ago. We climbed/descended 4500 feet  - so her RUFA run was like climbing Mt. Yale four times in one day!!!

I’m dividing my stress between worry for her, and worry for me that I won’t make the time cutoffs today. There are two of them - at miles 12.5 and 19.5, and I am not feeling confident. If I don’t make either cutoff, I’ll be pulled and driven back to the finish area at Riverside Park.  

The actual start is across the river from the park. The runners gather and we make small talk in dim light before the 8:00 start time. The sun isn’t up over the mountain yet, so we shiver with our dear friend Lynn who has driven here from the Colorado Springs area to cheer us on. Though it is chilly now, the day is supposed to get into the 60’s with significant wind, especially at the top of the course. 

Lynn moves off to the side and everyone joins in the countdown: “Five, four, three, two, one, GO!” All 250 runners competing in the trail marathon move forward as one, our index fingers poised above our watches/GPS devices, punching the start button as we cross the timing mat. And we’re off!

Charlotte, sweet girl, wants to run the first bit with me, but a few yards down the flat road and my heartrate is in the red. The anxiety is taking its toll. We wish each other good luck and “I love you!” and she is out of sight in roughly six seconds. A high-end sports car for sure.

I slog on, my legs full of concrete, and realize that my get up and go has gotten up and went. The first couple miles are a loop on a fairly flat road with a relatively small climb and I’m trying to get my heartrate back into this stratosphere. When I shuffle back by the start before heading up onto the mountain trail, Lynn cheers me on - but she looks concerned. 

The next few miles are for me a stress soup of pushing myself to run fast enough to make the first cutoff, finding the neon pink flags and ribbons to be sure I don’t go the wrong way, trying not to fall on the rocky terrain, and worrying about Charlotte. I keep sending messages to her body to hold up for this race. I’m just about in last place, but the bonus of that is peace and quiet on the trail. That way I can be alone with the screaming thoughts looping through my brain: “Hurry up! Watch it, you almost went down there! Oh, I sure hope Charlotte is okay.”

I come into the aid station at mile 8 to the blaring of the Rocky theme song and much cheering. The happiness quickly evaporates as I start the next leg: a four plus mile climb up a dirt road baking in the sun. I’m about a mile up and check my pace - at this rate, better to walk and save some energy. I also begin to come to terms that I’m probably not going to make the cut off, but decide to do two things: 1) try as hard as I can to make it; and 2) no crying if I don’t. Having squared that with myself, I put my head down and walk-shuffle my way up the climb. 

The sandy dirt road keeps climbing, and there are just a few spots where it is less steep so I get in a few running paces. The air is dry and warm, and there is no distraction of a gorgeous view, just scrubby, scraggly high desert flora. These four miles will never end. 

Then I remember the great Pam Reed, who twice was the overall winner of Badwater, a 135 ultra marathon from the inferno of Death Valley to the chilly elevation of the Mt. Whitney Portal. She wrote that she never sets out to run 135 miles, or 75 miles, or even 10 miles. It is only ever one mile at a time. So, one step at a time, I make my way to the top.

​(See Running Up For Air Part I: Stars Shining Over Malan’s Peak here)

According to the race tracker, Charlotte and Charlie are in 1st and 2nd place at the summit for their first lap! Charlotte is planning to run five laps - at this rate we might be getting some sleep before the night is done!

We whoop as they sprint into the trailhead area. Shannon and Amelia have a lineup of clever signs, different ones for each lap, and they make Charlie and Charlotte giggle. Our intrepid runners are feeling good. They pull up to a table and rifle through the food bags as volunteers refill their bottles and we catch up on the details. The microspikes are key for the icy part, and Charlotte was having heart pains when they started up the steep incline, but she is fine now. (?!) They had a blast chatting away through their six miles and meeting other runners. The two of them have decided to do eight laps. I worry about sleep (for her and for me), and I worry about her body handling that mileage. But I remind myself that this is her race. I am here to support her in whatever way I can. So I pull my worries to the back of my mind.

The two C’s take off for their second lap, and we supporters find our own rhythm for the night. Take video and cheer loudly when they come in from their lap. Snap a pic of them holding up fingers for which lap they’ve just done. Tend to what needs tending (nourishment, refill bottles, clothing changes, blisters, tape) while they warm up near the heat lamps. Take video and cheer loudly as they leave for their next lap. 

I get in plenty of my own laps walking back and forth to where I’m staying. There’s no sleep because I’m checking the tracker. I try to get work done, make hot tea, and when I see that they’ve summited, it is back to the trailhead to await their arrival. I am learning that if Charlotte needs something between laps, she’s more likely to accept help from someone that is not me. As much as she appreciates me being there, I’m still her mom. I’m so eager to help that it isn’t easy to back off, but I do my best to background myself a bit in the support duties. 

At 11pm, awaiting the end of their third lap, I stand at the trailhead, no one else near for the moment, and stare up. The inky indigo sky is dotted with cloud puffs moving across the gibbous moon. The quiet and lovely night is made more so by the feeling of everyone else at home, asleep, while we - this small band of runners and supporters - are vibrantly alive under the bright moonlight and velvety sky. I am happy to be here, awake.

It is now close to 5am and we’re waiting for Charlotte and Charlie to come in from their 5th lap. The breaks have gotten longer, the laps a bit slower, though they are still maintaining an impressive and consistent pace. Headlamps wink in and out through the darkness along the trail up the mountain; we’ve learned to look for the two headlamps together, as have the folks at the timing tent. They know these two and their numbers: “Here come 2403 and 2404!”

C and C arrive, and they are tired. Time for a little sleep. Planning to reconvene about 7am, we head to our accommodations and get about an hour of sleep. After a snack and some hot tea we are back at the trailhead. I’m amazed that Charlotte is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and the morning sunshine brings a new perspective: “We’ll actually be able to see the trail now!” The two warriors head off for their sixth lap, we three on the support crew clamoring excitedly. We definitely know how to do this support thing!

For lap seven, both runners have taped knees in the hopes of easing some soreness that has cropped up - understandable, since with six laps under their belt they’ve completed 36 miles and over 13,000 feet of climbing and descending. Ouch!  

Shannon yells “run faster this time!” Apparently this advice backfires, as it is their slowest lap. When they arrive, they are at a walk and Shannon’s sign reads “You okay?” It seems Charlie’s body has decided that he is done. After some discussion, Charlotte asks him how he’d feel about her doing the eighth lap on her own. She doesn’t want to make his not doing the eighth more difficult. But Charlie is the real deal. He is behind Charlotte 100%: “you’re the sickest person I know.” (“Sick” = “amazing” in Gen-Z speak.) He gives her a hug to send her on her way, a hug that speaks volumes about the people they are and the friendship they share. And Charlotte is off. Her summit time is the fastest since their first lap. When she comes down the final section into the start/finish area she is flying. And she’s done! The race director, Tara, walks over and hands her a donut. Charlotte sinks her teeth into that sweetness, a big grin on her face. 48 miles, 18,000 feet of climbing. The donut definitely made it all worthwhile.

*****
Being a part of this event was humbling. I watched runners accomplish incredible feats of mileage and climbing with no drama and much fortitude.I watched their camaraderie, through the night and all the next day, and I saw respect, and humor, and empathy. 

I watched volunteers stay up all night supporting the runners; some of those volunteers worked through the night and then raced in the morning - the 12 hour, 6 hour or 3 hour events. I watched kids and dogs frolicking, and everyone cheering on folks they didn’t know - rooting for them to run that next lap, welcoming them back on the return. 

I watched my daughter run her first ultra marathon adventure with her dear friend, overcoming the times of physical fatigue and mental challenge, and keep on going. I watched her smile, her determination, her confidence in what she can do.

This Running Up For Air event (RUFA: Malan’s Peak) raised $15K for air quality solutions. It brought people together in the best ways of athletic challenge, support and fun. I can’t wait for next year.

My toes curl in, trying their best to avoid the wet. Squelch, squatch, splosh. What’s falling from the sky is an indeterminate mix of rain, sleet and snow - but it is very definitely some giant’s spilled slushie that I’m plodding through. Every time a vehicle drives by I jump to the side to avoid the worst of the splashback. I’m thankful to reach the quiet road leading to the trail but here the slush is so thick and fluid it feels like I’m trying to skitter across a lake. The trail itself is slightly better, but when I start up the climb I slip-slop-slide with every step.

Why the heck am I out here? Several reasons: fresh air and outdoor running being preferable to the gym treadmill, getting in the last few days of mileage before the mid-March Salida trail marathon, where I will run 26.2 miles and climb 3800 feet. 

This sounds formidable - at least it did before my daughter signed up for the 24 hour RUFA (Running Up For Air) race in Ogden, Utah on February 27-28. Participants will do laps up Malan’s Peak: 3 miles up and 3 miles down, 2200 feet of elevation to ascend - and descend - with each lap. My daughter plans to run 5 laps (30 miles), and neither of us know what to expect. What will the mountain conditions be like? How long will it take? Will we stay up all night or grab a few hours of sleep? 

I also don’t know what to expect as I support her, but I do know that I’m stressed which is another reason I’m out here on this sloppy morning. I’ve watched videos to learn “how to crew for an ultra race.” I’ve checked in with Charlotte about the different foods she might want. I settle on some basics to bring: cinnamon rice cakes, a tub of peanut butter, gluten-free peanut butter and honey sandwiches, the entire bottle of honey, gluten-free pretzels, salty mini rice cakes, organic ginger ale - 2 boxes. Energy chews and bars, extra electrolyte mix. First aid: athletic tape, bandaids, pain reliever, Aquaphor. Sleeping bag, long coat (for keeping warm between laps). My shoes with spikes (for icy/snowpacked trail). Extra gloves, hats, rain shell, socks. A camp chair. And two headlamps, fully charged. This is just the stuff I’m bringing. She also has her own gear and food bag. I am hoping they’ll have a wagon or a donkey I can use to get all this stuff to the start area.

RUFA got its start when ultrarunner Jared Campbell was training for the Barkley Marathons, an extremely demanding 100-miler held in Tennessee, where the start time is signaled by the race director lighting a cigarette, and participants end up climbing the equivalent elevation of Mt. Everest (29K feet), trail-find to navigate the course, and even rip pages from books planted randomly along the way. In the winter months, as Campbell ran up and down Grandeur Peak in Salt Lake City to prepare for the grueling Barkley, he was climbing up through the inversion layer of pollution to the warmer, clear air at the summit. Eventually these training runs led to the Run Up For Air series, to bring awareness and raise money for air quality. 

Charlotte’s start is 6pm on Friday. She’s running with her good friend Charlie, whose longest distance to date is a half marathon. Joining me in support crew duties is Charlie’s twin sister Shannon and her friend Amelia. Being night shift nurses in Reno they are perfect for this role.
​
The winter here, just as in Colorado, has been unseasonably warm with very little snow. No worries about how to stay warm tonight, and the trail is mostly packed dirt/mud with a short icy section  - not the usual snow-packed conditions. The trailhead area sitting right at the base of Malan’s Peak is bordered with tents housing tables and chairs, coolers with water and Gnarly electrolyte replacement, and a warming tent with chairs set up under heat lamps, and a full spread of food: chicken nuggets, fruit, hot broth and coffee, and various forms of sweet and salty carbs. The timing tent is situated right at the trail start, and runners are directed to check in and out with that tent for each lap. 


​Golden sunset light settles around everyone. Kids, dogs, partners and friends surround the runners in the minutes before they take off. There are lots of smiles, upbeat banter, and the easy friendliness of everyone from runners to supporters to volunteers. The race director yells “GO!” and they are off! 

We watch the runners head up the trail, falling into a single-file line in the last light of the day. The first mile is rolling; it is miles two and three where they gain most of the 2200 feet in elevation. We plan to keep an eye on Charlotte and Charlie’s summit time to determine when to be back to greet them. Shannon and Amelia head off to grab a few supplies, and I head out for a brisk walk to warm up. 

As I move through the peaceful and dark neighborhood streets, I think about Charlotte, and wonder how it is going. How is that icy section where she’ll need her microspikes? Will the more technical parts of the trail be really difficult with just the headlamp? I’ll get my questions answered when they come in from their first lap. In the meantime, we are both moving forward under the starry sky.